


Unwelcome Company

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: Nick/Greg Ficlets [67]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Greg Sanders Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Nick and Greg can't seem to get a hold of each other, except through the radio.
Relationships: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes
Series: Nick/Greg Ficlets [67]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257824
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Unwelcome Company

**Author's Note:**

> TOTALLY went a vastly different direction than the anon who sent me the ask on tumblr about Nick and Greg thinking they were being ignored originally intended OOPs
> 
> thanks to @12percentplan for the help on the code lingo and I swear to god I’m gonna finish this. Warning for some uh, slurs directed at Greg

At first, he was frustrated, because he knows Greg Sanders and knows fully well that the man is _always_ on his phone, always has it on high volume with loud, obnoxious but admittedly charming ring tones, so there’s no way he didn’t hear Nick’s texts. Or calls. Or voice mails. 

Which is perhaps why his frustration had faded into a light panic, because Greg is not a ghoster, almost always texts Nick immediately–unless, this was some sort of cruel joke to show Nick how it feels, given that Nick is the type to leave the man on read for hours at a time, though that’s mostly because he just runs out of things to say. 

But he couldn’t worry about that right now, he had to worry about why Greg was not answering him. They were working separate cases on the opposite ends of the city, both on their own, and Nick had half a mind to just up and leave his scene to go check on the man.

That wouldn’t be right for the victim of his scene, though. It was a robbery, routine procedure, he would be out of there in no time, and then he could take a detour on his way back to the lab and check on Greg.

Everything was going to be okay.

“All units be advised, armed suspects on foot last seen on Bonanza Boulevard.”

…Or not.

That was the street Greg’s scene was on.

“Charlie 06 Sanders, do you copy?” Nick immediately asks into the radio, pausing his dusting of the counter top.

 _“Yeah, I copy, a bit busy here, Stokes, 10-12, over,”_ Greg’s voice crackles through his radio speaker, speckled with pops of static.

Pops that weren’t just the natural ambiance of the radio, but sounded sharper, louder. 

Like gunshots.

Nick nearly dropped his container of dust powder, his camera would have shattered if it wasn’t wrapped around his neck. 

10-12. Can’t talk. 

_Unwelcome company._

“Need some…fresh air,” he muttered to Officer Metcalf, not bothering to observe the man’s response, he stormed out of the convenience store he was tethered to, and once again spoke into the radio, “Charlie 06 Sanders, are you code four?” 

_“Nick, this isn’t summer camp, man, I can’t be jabbering on the radio all day. 10-12, over.”_

Nick was pacing back and forth in the alleyway, and while the gunshots had seemingly stopped, the line on Greg’s end remained connected. He must have pressed the emergency button, could hear muffled, shouting voices growing louder, clearer. 

_“Drop the weapon and put yourself against the wall, hands up!”_

_Okay, maybe Greg’s got back-up, maybe they’re taking control of the situation…_

_“Smash that stupid face of your against the wall, hands out of that scrawny ass and up in the air!”  
_

_…Or not._

Nick winced as he heard a loud groan–Greg’s groan, a noise that, in this particular context, was on the same level of distaste as the screech of nails on a chalkboard. 

_“Oh, you little freak, you liked that, huh? Like getting your face smashed against the brick? Like the feeling of a gun pressed up against your back?”_

Nick’s fist landed into his own brick, channeling his anger at the faceless voice, a furious, pained growl strained the veins in his neck. His hand had cracked, felt like it split apart as it landed into the unforgiving stone, but the amount of pain he experienced didn’t amount to what Greg was going through. 

_“Tell me, you little punk with those dopey ass spikes of yours, how’d you end up working for the 5-0 anyway? You’re just a CSI wannabe–”_

Nick wanted to vomit, his memories of affectionately calling Greg a “CSI wannabe” swirling with this man’s insulting demeanor brought up his hand for another punch at the wall, one that brought burning water to his eyes. 

_“–a little fag playing dress up, that big nose of yours shoved so close to the pavement…”_

Another Greg groan, and Nick had a sour feeling that his nose had just been smashed against something as rough and hard as pavement for emphasis–Nick’s fist almost landed another punch, but instead, he twisted around, the excess energy diverted into a sprint to his vehicle.

He had never left a crime scene before, certainly not one that he was working solo. But he just _could not stand_ hearing Greg like this, hearing this armed criminal put these thoughts into his head. 

There were no sirens on Greg’s end of the line, help wasn’t coming. 

He needed to be the help.

He needed to rescue Greg.


End file.
